The Sun’s Eternal Dance
The sun chased me round all year;
by its winter it ambered me in the womb,
and I lived through provision.
Its frost lashed, and the chill mocked me,
then I let the equinox tuck me in—
I unhinged while the beams jeered,
yet the light folded over my shoulders,
a slow-turning warmth nestling like fresh‑washed linen.
Spring waits in the marrow,
feeling me needing— quiet as a thaw,
seeds listen for heedings.
Summer’s oath is kept in the distance,
humming behind the horizon’s teeth.
The circling sun dances,
choosing me every season,
teaching me to rise when it rises,
to bow when it falls,
to carry its fire
even when the world goes dim.
The Itch in the Marrow
Every year, the sun starts to flirt with the dry bulb. I watch the mercury climb—not steadily, but in fits and starts, a tease of warmth that pulls at something deep in the marrow. This is the drive.
It’s not rational. The frost date is still weeks out. The soil is cold. The catalogues have barely arrived. But the light has changed, stretched just enough to whisper that spring is coming, and that whisper becomes an itch, then a burn, then a compulsion I can’t ignore.
I align with the mercury. When the thermometer hits that sweet spot—when the air temperature starts brushing against the numbers I’ve memorized from years of planting too early, planting too late, planting just right—the drive kicks in. It’s time to start the work.
This is the farmer’s curse and blessing: to be so attuned to the sun’s dance that you feel it in your bones before you see it in the soil. To know, without checking, when the season is about to turn. To be chosen by the circling sun, season after season, and to answer the call even when your hands are still cold from winter.
Do you feel the drive? What pulls you to the garden before the season is ready? Drop a comment below—I’d love to hear when the itch hits you, and how you know it’s time to start. And if this resonates, hit that like button so I know to write more
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